It's already moving—fiddle and guitar on a bright quick surface, pulse right under your feet.

Those oohs come in like calls thrown across distance, not decoration.

"Down to the river"—hunting time, plain as that, over the same cheerful drive.

Clothe the kids, feed the children—necessity said straight while the band keeps its stride.

Dogs in sight, fox through the pine and the cold river bend—the chase stays practical, not pretty.

By now you can feel how little it means to leave this pocket—bright on top, close to the ground underneath.

Same path, same feed-the-children line—the forward pull just picks the verse up again.

"I'm just a hunter"—not villain, not hero—while the oohs open the woods around her.

And the hinge: just tryin' to survive, still riding those wordless calls.

Gun in hand, into the woods—the band never breaks stride under the clearer work of the hunt.

Rumblin' bellies, shakin' limbs, a prize from the land—hunger narrowing every choice.

Hunter again, oohs woven through—the claim tighter, less explained.

Survive lands barer this time, almost inseparable from the running rhythm.

No capture, no triumph—just motion, need, and weather held in the same pulse.

Late and spare: I'm just a hunter.

Just tryin' to survive—then the ground goes quiet after the feet have passed.